1906: A Novel

by Dalessandro, James

  "Not yet."

  "What do you mean, not yet? They're taking these guys to the wharf on Jackson, that's a block away."

  "Christ, Hunter, don't go soft on me. You want, I'll take these guys myself."

  At the Jackson Street Pier, the wagon stopped near a small skiff bobbing in the water. Scarface and the Zipper shoved the colored plumber from the wagon and laughed hysterically when he landed face first on the wooden pier. They rolled him into the boat, which nearly capsized.

  The Whale lifted the unconscious boy like a sack of flour and flung him atop the bleeding, unconscious man.

  "All right, Hunter, let's move. And don't get too close to each other. Make them have to turn to see both of us."

  Hunter drew his revolver and sprinted forward, blood rushing in his ears, as the third and fourth victims landed in the boat.

  "Remember," Christian said. "If you kill 'em, it's a lot less paperwork."

  "I'll remember that."

  Christian screamed, "Halt! Police!"

  Hunter tried to yell the same but his voice failed.

  Christian shot a disgusted look at his brother and yelled "I want to see eight hands!"

  "What's this, some kind of shakedown?" the Whale spat. "You boys didn't get your cut from the night shift?"

  Christian cursed. "Eight hands. Let me see eight hands or somebody dies!" When Chicken raised a hand and a stump, Christian relented. "Okay. Seven hands and a hook."

  Hunter fought the trembling in his hands.

  "You know," Scarface offered, "you're interfering with the flow of commerce. These docks dry up for lack 'a crew, ain't a pot to piss in for nobody. You can make a month's pay doin' right here. Just take a little walk."

  "Raise your hands, higher!" Hunter yelled, his voice cracking. His adversaries cackled.

  "What are you going to do?" the Whale snickered. "Two of you gonna shoot all four of us?"

  Zipper, shoulder hidden in the shadows, moved his left hand imperceptibly to his coat pocket. It reappeared with lightning speed, clutching a revolver.

  A slug from Christian's Colt shattered Zipper's collarbone and sent him crashing into the water. The water sloshed as Zipper groaned and a dark stain spread around him.

  "My math must be bad," Christian shouted. "I only count three of you." Hunter's mouth grew dry and the rushing in his ears grew louder. The Whale, Scarface, and Chicken Devine grabbed for their weapons, diving toward the shadows.

  As Hunter turned, Scarface put a shot through the fabric of his billowing pea coat, missing his flesh by an inch. Hunter stumbled forward and dropped his revolver, kicking it halfway to the water.

  Christian whipped the sawed-off shotgun from his coat as the Whale aimed at Hunter. Christian fired first, blasted a gaping hole in the Whale's chest and sent him crashing into the boat, dumping the unconscious victims into the bay.

  Chicken Devine's shot sliced through the tip of Christian's ear. Christian spun to his right and pointed the Remington.

  Chicken dropped his gun and raised his hands in surrender. "I give up, don't

  sho. . . .“

  A blast from Christian's shotgun almost cut Chicken's wiry frame in half.

  Hunter scrambled toward his revolver as Scarface fired a shot between Christian's legs, just below disaster.

  Christian raised his revolver and fired, missing Scarface, who dove beneath the dock, disappearing into the murky water. Christian popped open the shotgun, dumped the two spent shells and reloaded. Despite the blood trickling from his ear, he looked as calm as a man about to order breakfast.

  "How you like police work so far, Hunter?"

  Hunter retrieved his revolver and ran toward the men floating in the bay, whipping off his shoes and jacket.

  "Christ, Hunter, you know how cold that water is?"

  He found out instantly, yelping as he hit the surface. He quickly shoved the boy to the dock's edge.

  Christian pulled the boy onto the dock with one hand, cradling the shotgun in the other. "You got downright charitable instincts, Hunter. Real valuable in this line of work."

  While Hunter maneuvered the Negro's body toward the dock, he looked up and caught Christian gazing toward the fog-shrouded bay. A worried look spread across Christian's face.

  "You decide to start worrying about dad? Little late for that, isn't it? He should be on his way back by now."

  Then Hunter noticed what had distracted his brother. The dogs were howling, from one end of the Barbary Coast to the other.

  This time, Christian was not dreaming.

  Chapter 13

  BUSH STREET

  APRIL 15, 1906. 10:00 P.M.

  The week that began on Easter Sunday, 1906, may well go down as the finest week of theater and music the city has ever seen, a cultural ascendance of the grand city of the American West. Those who have awaited the arrival of the world's most famous personality, Enrico Caruso, yet missed the extraordinary performance of John Barrymore in The Dictator, have deprived themselves of witnessing a star whose luminance may someday rival that of the great tenor himself. John Barrymore, rapidly gaining fame for his winsome looks and distinctive profile, has affirmed himself as an actor whose dramatic and comedic talent surpasses even his engaging presence. The youngest of "The Royal Acting Family of America"—with the Drew’s on his mother's side, and siblings Lionel and Ethel—his blossoming impact on the theater and the new medium of moving pictures appears limitless.

  Indeed, he may elevate the Barrymore’s to the stature of the Booth clan, the original "First Family of the Theater," Junius, Edwin, and the infamous John Wilkes, who once ignited San Francisco stages with their naturalistic approach to acting. We may well have witnessed the very future of American dramatic acting!

  I scrawled my review as the final curtain approached, eager to switch my attention to more meaningful concerns. The door opened behind me and again the light swept across the box.

  Adam Rolf removed the arm he had left lying across the back of my chair as Tommy knelt to whisper in his boss's ear.

  When Tommy left a minute later, Rolf leaned over and whispered to Shanghai Kelly, whose face curled in muted anger and disgust. As Boss Rolf whispered on, Kelly's eyebrows arched and his eyes sparkled in triumph, his smile revealing a single gold tooth.

  I did not notice the presence of an usher until he tapped me on the shoulder. I almost jumped out of my chair.

  "Miss Passarelli. You have a telephone call. They said it's important."

  "Excuse me, Mr. Rolf, Mr. Kelly. It must be my editor."

  I hiked my dress and hastened to the telephone station on the mezzanine, fighting a mounting sense of dread. I grabbed the ivory-handled receiver from the cord where the usher had left it hanging and closed the cabinet door around me.

  "Hello?" The anxiety in my own voice unnerved me.

  "Miss Passarelli, are you alone?"

  "Who is this?"

  "This is Prosecutor Charles Feeney. You know who I am?"

  "What say you, sir?"

  "Gioia."

  My heart leapt into my throat. It was my mother's name, the password Byron Fallon arranged for Mr. Feeney or Francis Fagen to use should any of our plans unravel.

  "We have a problem, Miss Passarelli. The boat carrying our friend failed to arrive for the meeting in Belvedere."

  I sagged against the wall.

  "Miss Passarelli?"

  "Yes."

  "I'm told the boat is about to dock at Mission Pier. We have reason to believe our friend is not aboard."

  "Where is he? Do you know?"

  "All we know is that he is missing. The weather changed so quickly we were unable to go out after him. But it's breaking now and we're leaving this moment. I thought it important to warn you. He was carrying some papers, was he not?"

  His only response was the receiver banging against the wall where I had dropped it. I tried to gather myself lest I draw attention, walking purposefully down the marble steps.

  At the curb outside,
I summoned a leather-bonneted Hansom from the block-long cue.

  "Mission Pier!"

  "Well, now that's along the Barbary Coast, ma'am, not the friendliest 'a places. 'Specially this time 'a night." His lip curled upward, a glint in his eye as he looked me up and down.

  "I am not a parlor girl, and I don't need an escort. Now, do you want to get paid? Just get me there as fast as you can!"

  He turned and cracked his whip.

  At the Hall of Justice, Hunter Fallon sat before the Remington, typewriting his report as Christian stood behind him with a cloth pressed to his bloody ear.

  "You going to leave me with all this paperwork?"

  "You're a college boy, you should be used to it by now." Christian reached over Hunter and pulled a pen from the desk well. He signed several blank forms.

  "You don't even want to know what I'm going to write?"

  "Who's gonna fuss about it? The Whale?"

  Hunter looked about the squad room, his breathing still labored, his clothes dripping onto the wooden floor. He noticed the desk sergeant staring in his direction. "You didn't tell anyone, did you?"

  "Tell 'em what?"

  "That I dropped my gun!"

  "They hate us enough already. Be sure to have someone fix that bullet hole in your coat so you don't have to answer a lot of questions. See you tomorrow night."

  "That's it, you're finished?"

  "Kill somebody, get the night off. They figure you might be a little jumpy and shoot your partner. Just make it clear they drew on us first."

  "I should leave out the part about the Chicken having his hands up when you shot him."

  "One hand, one stump. If you had hung onto your gun, I wouldn't have had to shoot him. And Scarface wouldn't be out there shanghaiing somebody else. Think about that while you're filling out all these stupid forms. You could have got us both killed."

  Christian was halfway across the squad room before Hunter noticed he was gone.

  Hunter struggled to roll a form into the typing machine, the sound of gunfire still ringing in his ears. His fingers hit one wrong letter, then another. He looked over his shoulder and saw the desk sergeant still staring at him Hunter stared back until the sergeant lost interest. He tore the first form out and crumpled it up, missing the nearby waste can. A second form suffered the same fate.

  The telephone rang on the sergeant's desk, the tinny sound echoing across the hardwood floors and vacant desks.

  "Officer Fallon." At first it didn't register. "Officer Fallon!"

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Telephone call."

  Hunter walked quickly across the squad room, uncertain who might call him at the Detective Bureau. The sergeant had left the receiver dangling, departing in the direction of the patrolmen's duty room.

  Hunter raised it cautiously to his ear. "Hello?"

  "Christian?"

  "No. This is his brother, Hunter."

  "Hunter? This is Fire Chief Sullivan. There's no graceful way to tell you. Your father never arrived at Belvedere. Was Christian with him?"

  "It was just Anthony and my father."

  "The Harbor Police spotted the launch headed toward Mission Pier. You better get down there as fast as you can."

  Hunter bolted down the steps to the sidewalk and sprinted four blocks to the livery. In seconds, he was roaring down scruffy Clay Street, sending drunks and revelers diving from his path.

  At Mission Pier, he spotted a man crawling toward him on hands and knees. He jammed the brake, jumped off and seized the kneeling figure by his sopping jacket.

  Anthony looked up, vomiting a mouthful of brackish water and gasping for breath.

  "Where is he, Anthony? Where's my father, dammit?"

  Anthony sobbed convulsively. "I tied him to the rail . . . there was just the two of us . . . me and him . . . Christian was supposed to be there . . . then he was gone . . . I tied him to the rail . . . I pulled the rope up, there was no one there . . . it was so dark . . . it was so dark I couldn't see nothing." Anthony retched again.

  Hunter raised the motorcycle and charged down the quarter-mile pier.

  At the end tie, the launch bobbed and banged against the pilings. In one move Hunter dismounted and leapt five feet to the heaving deck.

  "Dad, dad!" Hunter slipped on the wet surface and crashed to his knees, still yelling for his father. He scrambled above to the pilot's roost. Nothing. He grasped the brass rail and slid quickly back to the deck.

  He ripped open the passage door to the engine room and went below. The door banged shut, plunging him into darkness. Hunter took two steps and tripped over a coil of heavy line. As he tried to untangle himself, he heard soft footsteps on the deck above. He crouched behind the passageway, drawing his revolver as the steps approached.

  The door slid open and a silhouette appeared. Hunter seized an upturned collar and shoved the Colt in the intruder's face. "Don't move."

  I stared back at him, trembling, mouth agape.

  It took a moment for him to recognize me. "Annalisa? What the hell are you doing here?"

  "Where's Byron? Where's your father? Please don't tell me something happened to him."

  Hunter's face only mirrored my pain. He struggled to respond. "All I know is he's missing. How did you find out, Annalisa? Who told you to come here?"

  "An ally of your father," I gasped. Then another horror dawned on me. "The black portfolio. The one with the affidavits and the photographs. Where is it?"

  Before Hunter could reply, a police whistle sounded in the distance. Without another word, I scrambled from the engine room, leaving the door to slam behind me.

  I spotted men in uniform running toward the launch. I scrambled low across the dock to a dinghy two slips away and crawled beneath a filthy canvas tarpaulin.

  Moments later, I peeked from beneath the canvas.

  Police Chief Jessie Donen, in civilian clothes and rumpled hair, arrived with a dozen officers. "What the hell is going on here, Hunter?"

  "My father is missing, Chief Donen."

  "Tell me somethin' I don't already know. Tell me why he was out on the bloody bay in the middle of the Goddamn night!"

  "What does that matter? He's missing."

  "All right, men, let's search every inch of this thing."

  I could see the blue-coated officers jump aboard and scatter in every direction.

  "They're trampling the crime scene, sir!" Hunter pleaded.

  "Crime scene, what the hell are ya' talkin' about, crime scene? Bloody college boy. Arrest the bloody riptide would you? One day on the force and tellin' me how to do my job. You wanna help yer father? Find yer drunken brother and get every man on the night shift out searchin' the bloody bay."

  Hunter watched painfully as Donen's men ran about the boat. "That's an order, Officer Fallon. Get everyone out on the bay. Now!"

  I pulled the tiny opening closed as Hunter went running down the wooden pier.

  The Waltham roared to life and quickly faded in the distance.

  I lay there in the cramped and musty enclosure, wondering if my heart could actually explode.

  "All right, lads, anybody find anything worth findin'?"

  "Nothin', Chief. Ain't no one here."

  "Let's be done with it, then. The dumb bastard finally got what's comin' to him. As chief of this fine department, it's my sacred duty to stand a few jolts of cheap Irish down at Kelly's in honor of our departed comrade."

  A chorus of laughter mingled with the sound of departing footsteps and the howling of the wind.

  I lay shivering beneath my fetid cover for twenty minutes, weeping softly for Byron Fallon. I felt like everything had come crashing down.

  But like the Phoenix, the official symbol of the City herself, another hero would soon emerge.

  PART TWO

  THE VOICE OF GOD

  It's an odd thing, but anyone who disappears is said to be seen in San Francisco.

  -OSCAR WILDE

  Chapter 14

  BUSH STRE
ET

  APRIL 16, 1906. 12:05 A.M.

  My footsteps had been reverberating amongst the empty desks and file cabinets of the Evening Bulletin's editorial offices for more than an hour, every imaginable scenario for the fate of Byron Fallon skipping through my mind. The sudden jolt of electric lights made me jump.

  I turned to find Fremont Older striding toward me, his face contorted in anguish.

  The shrill voice of a Mary McDermitt, sent from the Midwest by Prince Benjamin of the Flying Rollers of the House of David to warn us of the disaster he was about to unleash upon us, rose above the honking horns and rumbling wheels six stories below. "Pride precedeth the fall. Hence did Babylon and Rome reap their vain glory in fiery doom!"

  Older stormed to the window and slammed it shut. "Every day, it's a different lunatic. Last month, it was the nuts waving Zadkiel's Almanac, screaming that Mars was in cahoots with Saturn or some nonsense and an earthquake was going to bring everything down on top of us."

  He looked at me sternly, as if just noticing my presence.

  "If you are filing your Barrymore review, Annalisa, it will have to wait."

  "I've already done that, sir. Do you have news of Byron Fallon?"

  "Byron Fallon? How did you hear about Byron Fallon?"

  I hesitated. "Mr. Feeney telephoned me at the Opera House."

  He dropped his brown Fedora onto a nearby desk, and might have asked "and why would he do that?" but the look did it for him.

  I breathed a long, pained sigh. The only two men who knew my identity as Byron's informant, Francis Fagen and Charles Feeney, were nowhere to be found, and I was as frightened as I could remember. That left Mr. Older as the only one in whom I could confide, as he had initiated the entire graft hunt. If my fears were realized, the oath of secrecy I had taken to the good Lieutenant was now meaningless.

  "I've been his secret informant for almost a year and a half now."

  "If this is a joke, Annalisa, I've heard better."

  "Not much of a joking matter, sir."

  I proceeded to summarize, in a strained, halting voice, my activities: reporting my findings to Byron Fallon, purloining Rolf's ledger, delivering my affidavits.